Shut up!" he whispered. "The less you say the sooner it will be over!"

My Father said less at once. He seemed very glad to know about it.

Our Aunt Esta pointed to a boxful of little envelopes.

"Foul Menial," she said. "Bring the little envelopes!"

The Rich Man brought them. But not very cheerfully.

"Oh, of course, it's all right to call _me_ that," he said. "But I tell
you quite frankly that my daughter Posie's maid will never stand for
it! _Her_ name is Elizabeth Lou!--Mrs. Jane--Frank--Elizabeth
Lou--even!"

Our Aunt Esta looked at the Rich Man. Her look was scornfuller and
scornfuller.

"_All_ Witch's servants," she said, "are called 'Foul Menial!'--From the
earliest classical records of fairy tale and legend down to----"

"Not in our times," insisted the Rich Man. "I defy you in any
Intelligence Office in New York to find a--a----"

Our Aunt Esta brushed the contradiction aside. She frowned. Not just at
the Rich Man. But at everybody. "We will proceed with the Rehearsal--as
written!" she said. She gruffed her voice. She thumped her wand on the
floor. "Each captive," she said, "will now step forward and draw a
little envelope from the box."

Each captive stepped forward and drew a little envelope from the box.

Inside each envelope was a little card. Very black ink words were
written on each card.

"Captives, stand up very straight!" ordered our Aunt Esta.

Every captive stood very straight.

"Knock your knees together with fear!" ordered our Aunt Esta.

Every captive knocked his knees together with fear.

"Strain at your chains!" ordered our Aunt Esta. "But not too hard!
Remembering they are paper!"

Every captive strained at his chains but not too hard! Remembering they
were paper!

Our Aunt Esta seemed very much pleased. She read another poem from her
book. The poem said:

Imprisoned thus in my Witchy Wiles,
Robbed of all hope, all food, all smiles,
A Fearful Doom o'er-hangs thy Rest,
Unless thou meet my Dread Behest!

"Oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear--oh, dear!" cried our Mother. "Can nothing
save us?"

My Father burst his nose-ring!

Rosalee giggled!

Carol and I jumped up and down! We clapped our hands!

The Rich Man cocked his head on one side. He looked at our Aunt Esta. At
her funny black pointed hat. At her scraggly gray wig. At her great
horn-rimmed spectacles. At the hump on her back. "U-m-m," he said. "What
do you mean,--'witch-y wiles?'"

"_Silence!_"